


Right Hand

by VenatorNoctis



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Fealty, M/M, Pastfic, Sparring, Tales from the Shadows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 21:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20682185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenatorNoctis/pseuds/VenatorNoctis
Summary: Varis yae Galvus has reported to his grandfather on his first campaign. Regula is there for him afterward.When they face each other, Regula can still see the tension—the pain—in Varis' expression, as though he would cry from sheer frustration if he dared. But of course that isn't safe, when His Radiance has refused to name a successor even as age is visibly slowing him, so that every man of House Galvus with even a scrap of a claim must argue for his right to the crown in his every action.





	Right Hand

**Author's Note:**

> I got completely distracted from the actual point of "Through His Eyes" by the part where teenage Varis wanted Solus' approval and _will never get it_ and I had to write him at least a little something nice.

The door to the audience chamber slams open with such force that Regula jumps, scrambling to attention. There are very few people strong enough to move those giant doors with such force, and fewer still who are allowed admittance into the Emperor's presence. His heart is still pounding from the adrenaline when Varis storms out of the room, not quite at a run but clearly unhappy.

Regula hurries to follow, awkwardly jogging to catch up—he's turning out tall, like his mother, but Varis has a build that puts even roegadyn to shame, and his stride devours distance. When he reaches Varis' side, Regula can see the frustration stamped across his face: his cheeks flushed, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set in a stubborn line.

Without a word, Regula touches his elbow, suggesting a change of course. Varis tenses but he accepts the suggestion, turning with Regula and heading down toward the palace training grounds.

Regula can only guess at what was said in the audience. In a general sense, of course, he knows that Varis was reporting the results of his first mission command, and it is hardly a secret that His Radiance is a difficult man to please for more than a passing moment. But the specifics—it sounded as though the campaign had been a success, from the way Varis spoke of it on his return. Quelling unrest, increasing the stability and safety of the Empire and her people: what is there to find fault with in that?

There is a squadron practicing in the first quadrant of the training field, but beyond that there's empty ground. Regula tries not to make it look as though he's struggling to keep up with Varis' long strides; he's all too aware that he, too, will need to command respect from the rank and file soon enough.

Varis is an excellent shot but guns make for poor sparring weapons, so it's with blades in hand that they make their way out onto the sands. When they face each other, Regula can still see the tension—the pain—in Varis' expression, as though he would cry from sheer frustration if he dared. But of course that isn't safe, when His Radiance has refused to name a successor even as age is visibly slowing him, so that every man of House Galvus with even a scrap of a claim must argue for his right to the crown in his every action.

There is nothing Regula can do to resolve that, though. Instead he does what he can for his dearest friend: he adjusts his grip on his greatsword, takes a deep breath, and charges.

Instantly, Varis' expression changes. He steps into Regula's swing, fearless, bringing his blade up to block with that effortless power he's grown into in the last year or two. The impact jars up Regula's arms and he grits his teeth, backstepping quickly to recover. Varis whips his sword around, turning the block into an attack of his own. Regula deflects instead of trying to meet the blow head-on; that's an arrogance he can ill afford with Varis as his opponent.

They circle each other, feinting and trading blows, and as he focuses on the moment the hurt fades from Varis' face and posture. Determination far better suits him, a match for the nobility of his features and the power of his frame. Varis has the makings of a hero, a leader, and if His Radiance doesn't acknowledge that—well, it would be treason to voice Regula's feelings on that matter, but that does nothing to change them.

Steel rings as their blades meet, the sound echoing across the grounds. Sparring with Varis is a greater challenge than any of Regula's peers or most of his instructors can offer him; he's breathing hard, and feeling the weight of his armor keenly. Still, he can see where he's affecting Varis as well, golden hair darkened with sweat at his temples and graceful strokes beginning ever so slightly to slow.

Then their blades lock, metal grinding in protest as they push against each other, unwilling to give ground and mere ilms apart. Varis looks him in the eyes and smiles and Regula's heart skips a beat. There's so much more in that expression than he can even decode.

"Regula," Varis says, that wonderful low register his voice has deepened into.

"My lord," Regula answers, light and teasing; he hasn't called Varis that seriously in private since they were young enough to still be in short pants.

"You always know what I need," Varis says. He hasn't let up the pressure on his blade.

"If only I could provide what you truly deserve," Regula says. He wants to add something like, _When the time comes, I will help you claim it_, but the words weigh down his tongue, too much, too soon, when he has not a single real battle under his belt yet.

But Varis says, "You will." He takes a hand off his sword hilt and catches Regula around the nape of his neck, pulling him in closer; their blades are still between them but neither of them is pushing now. He leans in and down until their foreheads touch, so that the sense of _him_ is all Regula's third eye can perceive. It's raw and overwhelming, more intimate than Regula can even imagine a kiss being. "I may not be ready to make my case yet, but I will be. I will do what I must for the sake of Garlemald. And you'll be with me, won't you?"

"I will be at your right hand," Regula promises. "Always."


End file.
